Dante stuck his hands in his pockets, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder, to determine where Ezra was and give him a moment to catch up.

He resumed walking after that, through the hall, down the stairs, out that final door.

In other circumstances, his mind would go hunting for something to say: eager to make another futile attempt to put a crack in the ten-feet-wide wall of distance around Ezra. That urge wasn't here now; he was satisfied with the quiet.